


The Poem of the Air

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-07
Updated: 2005-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have had a holy vision,” Dom announces. Elijah starts to giggle uncontrollably next to him. “A vision,” Dom continues, still utterly straight-faced, “of future glory and magnificence awaiting us. Fondue, my brothers of the snowboard. Cheesy goodness that it is our fucking duty to seek out and gorge upon.”</p><p>The car pulls over.</p><p>“It is a sacred quest,” Viggo proclaims, eyes gleaming fanatically, face solemn and set.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Poem of the Air

i.

“Coronet’s _shit,_ man,” Orli announces, hands waving about wildly as he tries to demonstrate the exact amount of shit Coronet Peak really is.

“Keep obstructing my vision, elf, and this car’s going to take a little cross-country detour,” Viggo says  
mildly, in that tone which frankly scares Billy more than when he roars.

He slaps one of the flailing hands away as he carefully and ever-so-slowly manoeuvres the packed car down the hairpin mountain roads and back into Queenstown.

“Orlando, quit it, man, or he’ll drive slower. If that’s even possible. And some of us would like to get home and soak the pain away,” Elijah puts in from the crowded backseat.

He’s using Dom’s shoulder as a pillow, and Dom, in turn, is using Billy’s. Billy has to make do with being squished up against the window, and his neck aches from the angle it’s forced into, but he doesn’t want to shift and disturb Dom, who’s drowsing and occasionally muttering about cheese.

Orli subsides, ardour only slightly dampened. “But Coronet _sucks,_ Lij. The snow there was all slushy and the runs were all crowded and the cafeteria was manky. I _said_ we should have gone up to Treble Cone, I _told_ you- ”

Billy notices Viggo’s knuckles turn yellowy-white on the steering wheel.

“It would have taken over an hour longer to drive to Treble Cone, and again to drive back. We’re shooting tomorrow, so we couldn’t afford to take an extra three hours, ” Viggo explains, calmly.

“Coronet’s not so bad,” Billy interjects hastily, because there’s something alarming in the set of Viggo’s shoulders. “I’m not raving about it, mind, but it’s alright. Cardrona, now, it’s far better than even Treble Cone.”

Elijah rolls his eyes at him. Tucked into Dom’s side, he looks exhausted. “We know, Billy. How many times now?”

Billy can feel the corners of his mouth stretch slightly. “Lovely Gaelic name, Cardrona. The windy place. Shows excellent taste.”

The car fills with argument as Elijah, Orlando and Viggo begin to hotly debate the merits of various ski fields. Billy settles back and lets it wash over him gently, pleased that Viggo’s raising his voice again.

Dom whimpers slightly in his sleep, and Billy looks down at him, amused. Dom’s eyes are screwed tightly shut, but his mouth is hanging open slightly, and Billy rather hopes he won’t slobber on him. Some things test the boundaries of friendship. There’s a faint rough redness to Dom’s cheeks, and in the ruddy tint of his nose; he’s taken a bit too much sun on the slopes today, Billy notices, and resolves to slather Dom up with sunblock next time, to prevent him catching hell from Makeup.

Billy combs his hand through Dom’s messy dirt blond hair. One blue eye opens and peers suspiciously at him.

‘Hello,” Billy grins, and is rewarded with a sleepy smile back.

“I’ve had a lovely dream, Billy,” Dom whispers over the din.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Cheese, Bills. I’ve had a hard day’s snowboard, and I want cheese.”

Billy can’t help the little giggle that escapes him at this, although if pressed he will vehemently deny ever making such a sound.

The other eye opens, and Dom peers at the car’s roof, faintly cross-eyed. “Melty cheesy goodness! _Fondue,_ even, proper Swiss fondue. With the little spears and bread bits.”

“We’ll see, then. What d’you think the chances are of finding somewhere in Queenstown that’ll have it? Slim to none?”

Dom stretches, knocking Elijah’s head off his shoulder and alerting the car to his regained consciousness. He leans back further onto Billy, all beatific calm, despite the fact that Elijah has just clouted him. “The fondue shall come to pass, Bill. I have foreseen it.”

Billy cannot help groaning loudly.

In the driver’s seat, Viggo twitches. Billy watches with trepidation.  
Slowing down until he car is barely moving, Viggo turns around to look at Dom. “What’s this, perian?”

“I have had a holy vision,” Dom announces insouciantly. Elijah starts to giggle uncontrollably next to him. “A vision,” Dom continues, still utterly straight-faced, although his eyes are goddamn _glinting,_ “of future glory and magnificence awaiting us. _Fondue,_ my brothers of the snowboard. Cheesy goodness that it is our fucking _duty_ to seek out and gorge upon.”

The car pulls over.

“It is a sacred quest,” Viggo proclaims, eyes gleaming fanatically, face solemn and set.

Billy puts his face in his hands. If he didn’t love these men like brothers, then he’d be seriously pissed off right now. He’s unfortunately not as young as he once was, and right now he’d crawl over broken glass if it meant he could go home, fetch himself a good glass of red and soak his tired muscles in the spa, maybe nod off a bit. _Heaven._

Instead, it looks like he’s going to be scouring Queenstown for fucking _fondue_ in a car loaded with four mad bastards, five snowboards, an extraordinary number of empty beer bottles, and the unfortunate reek of Elijah’s feet after being in the boots all day long.

“Dom,” Billy warns, “I am seriously _cheesed off,”_ and watches Dom wince at the terrible pun, clutching his chest and swooning back against Elijah. Billy feels no remorse. It was deserved. He sighs wearily.

“Just where in Queenstown d’you expect to find fondue?”

  
ii.

The car moves smoothly through the gridded main streets of Queenstown. Lake Wakatipu gleams dark and quiescent along the harbour in the half-light. The sun has just disappeared completely behind the encircling rim of the mountains, and the sky still glows a soft dusky blue.

The car stops.

Viggo rolls the window down and accosts a hapless passer-by.

“Greetings, friend. Where in Queenstown might one expect to find fondue? Fondue made with cheese?”  
Viggo’s tone is perfectly decorous and polite, so Billy finds the woman’s double-take slightly surprising. Possibly being a member of the Fellowship has warped his sense of normality.

The woman looks a little wild about the eyes. It may have something to do with the way Elijah, Billy and Dom are amusing themselves by contorting their faces through the windows. Orli would likely love to join in, too, but Viggo is between him and the stranger, and Billy knows Orli is canny enough not to risk a Headbutt With Intent.

“Well, there was that big French place... L’Iglu, right near O’Connell’s. Big glass igloo entrance.”  
Billy knows O’Connell’s right enough, but he’s never seen any enormous glass igloos. Feeling rather cheated, he mentions this fact.

The woman turns to look at him. Billy considers prying Dom off him, currently busy alternating between licking Billy’s cheek and then waggling his tongue at the lady, but Dom’s clinging like a limpet, and Billy gives it up as a bad job.

“It closed about two years ago. Was a lovely restaurant; you took an escalator up into the igloo-”

“We are currently concerned with places that _currently_ serve fondue,” Viggo interjects; his voice has changed from merely polite in tone to gently, excruciatingly mild. Little frissons of fear shoot along Billy’s spine at the sound, Dom huddles closer to Billy, nose tickling Billy right underneath his ear, and Elijah clings to Dom, head buried on his shoulder. Elijah really has no sense of personal space, Billy decides.

The woman blinks slightly. “Er - I can’t really think of anywhere else, actually. Not for fondue.”

Dom whimpers into Billy’s neck. “No fondue! I’ll perish, Bills, I’ll waste away and die, and then I’ll expect you to lie on top of my coffin and follow me into the afterlife.”

“Dance on your grave, more like,” Billy whispers back, but he pats Dom on the head anyway. “Pull yourself together, git. If you’re that desperate, I daresay we can go buy some stuff and try and make something at home.”

“We shall not falter in our quest,” Viggo reprimands Billy sternly. The woman looks more nonplussed yet.

“You could try Roaring Meg’s, actually. I don’t know for certain, but it’s possible they’ll have it.”

Viggo thanks the lady gravely, and takes note of her directions. Then the car speeds off. Billy thinks the woman is probably still staring after them, but can’t be arsed to look back.

“Roaring Meg’s!” Orli cheers. “Man, is that the best name for a pub, or what?”

“Or a brothel,” Elijah adds, face pink with barely suppressed laughter.

Dom’s laughing too, eyes screwed up. “Place with a name like that, they’d better have bounteous barmaids or it’s false advertising. ”

  
iii.

It is with some disappointment that they regard the exterior of Roaring Meg’s a little later. Far from a boisterous tavern, Roaring Meg’s is a sweet little colonial cottage, all white weatherboards, carved wooden lace and sharply sloped roof of corrugated iron.

“‘All is not gold that glitters,’” Viggo mutters darkly. “There is beer and fondue within.”

Billy is seriously tempted to wallop Viggo over the head with a billet of firewood. He is gratified to see he is not alone in this desire; Elwood has screwed up his nose, Orli can’t breathe for laughing, and Dom is muttering sadly under his breath about mad sad old buggers whose minds have slipped and speak in quotes. Billy feels a surge of kinship with them all.

Possibly not for Viggo, though, who he now notices has his sword belted at his hip again. Dedicated doesn’t even begin to cover it. Billy has a very healthy respect for method acting, but Viggo damn well didn’t snowboard with the bloody sword, which means he must have smuggled it into the boot of the car. Mad mad mad as a March hare.

“Um, guys? We’ve been out here for a while.”

Elijah’s reminder is timely. It’s bloody freezing outside, nearly as cold as it was up the mountain. Billy can see his breath frost on the wind in the warm light coming from Roaring Meg’s small windows. The light is nearly entirely gone from the sky, which is black and ominous. Billy is tempted to ask Viggo, the outdoorsman among them, whether he thinks it’ll snow, but he hasn’t the patience right now for Viggo’s likely baffling answers. Elwood’s right; it’s fucking arctic, and well past time they were inside.

They troop onto the wooden veranda, adorned with twining and flowerless wisteria, and into the warmth of the little restaurant. There’s a huge woodfire on one side of the long room, blazing and snapping in a rugged shale fireplace. The place looks far more promising inside; across the room from the fire is a well-stocked bar, and groups of men knocking back beer. At the tables, couples and groups of friends sit and eat.

Billy is staring longingly at the promising heat of the fire when Viggo asks the burning question.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he asks, white teeth bared in a lupine grin, “do you serve fondue at this fine establishment? Fondue made with cheese?”

Dom grips Billy’s hand in exaggerated anticipation. Billy squeezes back reassuringly.

The waitress is refreshingly unfazed. “Yes, sir, we do. Would you like a table near the fire?”

Amazing, Billy thinks. She didn’t even look twice at the sword, despite Viggo fondling the hilt lovingly.

When they’re seated, Orli asks what has obviously been preying on his mind. He looks slant ways at the waitress, who is well-bosomed enough to please even Dom. “Are you Meg?”

Orlando’s lucky he’s so very pretty, Billy thinks. All long-legged coltish beauty, large dark eyes, wide boyish grin and eyelashes. If Billy or some other ordinary-looking fellow asked, they’d be lucky to get a haughty sniff for their troubles. Instead, the waitress visibly softens.

“No, I’m not Meg.”

Billy notices she doesn’t offer her name. One in the eye for you, pretty boy.

“I don’t know if there ever was a Meg. This place is named for one of the rapids on the Shotover, Roaring Meg - you know the Shotover River?

"

Orli’s eyes light up. “Yeah, of course! Yeah, we went out on one of those jet boats, it was fucking awesome, man, the way it swung about, I thought we were gonna hit-”

  
iv.

“Give it up, man,” Elijah laughs, remaining insistently clamped to Orli’s right arm.

Orlando thrashes about trying to break his grip, but it’s hard to pivot decisively when your other arm is being held quite firmly by an extremely smug-looking Dom.

“Let- _arghhhh_ \- go! C’mon, guys, just stop it, I’ll scream, I swear-”

“Terrifying, isn’t he, Bills?” Dom smirks over at where he stands. “He’ll scourge us with his girlish shrieks.”

Billy grins back. “I don’t know, Dom. Considering our dear mate’s soprano range, it could be tricksy. Nice place, this. Be a shame to repay their hospitality by breaking their glassware.”

As Billy speaks, he inches closer and closer and closer to the flailingyellinggiggling three-headed mass. Elijah’s hand slips up into Orli’s armpit and begins to tickle. Whilst Orlando is thus distracted, Billy steps closer still, and snakes his arm rapidly around Orli’s waist, hand slipping into the back pocket of Orlando’s jeans with practised ease.

“Ta-daaa!” He announces, stepping away again, prize held aloft. With the flourish of a magician whipping a bouquet of roses out of his sleeve, Billy presents Orlando’s wallet to Viggo. Viggo’s been sitting peaceably in his chair while the drama played itself out, ignoring both his companions’ struggles and the fixed stares of the other diners. Bloody typical.

Viggo rewards him with a brief fierce smile and the wallet vanishes somewhere about his person. Orlando’s struggles subside and he shakes Dom and Elijah off, and returns to his chair. Billy’d swear he’s bloody pouting. The game’s undoubtedly over, though; attempting to retrieve the wallet from Viggo would be a kamikaze mission.

Dom’s hand clenches gently on Billy’s shoulder as he follows suit and sits down again. Billy turns his head and they share a grin. A victory of the forces of DomandBilly [and Elijah, too, Billy realises with faint irritation, love Elwood as he does].

Orlando’s complete and utter light-weightedness has led to a prohibition for him on nights before filming, and it is sternly enforced even by those he considers friends. Such betrayal is necessary to prevent public displays of nudity and to protect innocents from his drunken octopus embracings. Billy has a feeling that sometimes Elijah doesn’t try as hard as he might to immobilise Orli and allow Billy to nick his wallet, thus preventing him from buying drinks. It’s only a wee feeling though. Probably nothing.

And the shameless way Elijah’s draping himself over Dom’s shoulder, again, is probably nothing, either.

  
v.

When the fondue arrives, everyone’s quite happily onto their second beer, save for Orlando, who’s sullenly sucking on a lemonade.

Orli’s been shooting miffed looks around the table. There’s really nothing more amusing than Orlando when he’s miffed, Billy thinks. But Orlando noticeably cheers up when the waitress returns, bearing a large blue-enamelled pan before her, steam rising lazily into the air.

Dom jolts bolt upright from where he was lounging indolently in his chair, head on Billy’s shoulder. “The fondue!” he positively crows, face alight with glee.

Billy loves it when Dom gets that look. The happiness practically leaps forth, glowing and ready to make everyone else’s emotions POW’s to his own. There’s nothing Billy can do in response than beam rather wildly back.

Not-Meg carefully places the pot atop the wee element in the centre of the table. Dom shoots Billy a triumphant, anticipatory glance, and smacks his lips together loudly.

Another waitress lays out plates and little fondue spears. A basket containing hunks of baguette follows.

The fondue spears are immediately assessed by all for weaponry potential.

  
vi.

Four swordfights later, the spears are finally utilised for their primary purpose.

 _It’s all fun and games until someone stabs Orlando in the thigh,_ Billy thinks.

“He’s faking it, the pansy,” Dom stage whispers hoarsely. “There wasn’t even any blood! “

Billy reaches out and stirs the fondue. It’s thickening up, and it takes a bit of push to draw spirals in the rich cheese.

'Lij leans forward and dips a bit of bread in. The others follow suit.

Billy can see why Dom was craving this so badly. It’s rich and tangy, soft, faintly alcoholic. The taste sits on the back of the tongue, liquid and dense.

Dom’s eating a second bit with relish, the thickened cheese threaded to the bread as he pulls it away, trying to see how long he can stretch it out until it breaks.

“Tastes like a lot of alcohol’s in here,” Elijah laughs.

Viggo nods. “Yes, it’s customary to add a fair amount of white wine. It delays the evaporating progress and helps the cheese stay liquid.” He grins. “Improves the flavour, too.”

“You’re like, an enclopedia, Vig,” Orli breaks in, trying vainly to stop his soggy bread from dropping off the spear onto the table.

Viggo stretches back and crosses his ankles. “When Exene and I were in the Ukraine once, we stayed with a friend of hers who made fondue for us. She didn’t use white wine. A whole bottle of vodka instead.” He laughs. “The fumes themselves could intoxicate. I could barely eat it. There’s very little alcoholic content in this, in comparison.”

“I bet it’s enough for Orli to get drunk off, though,” Dom needles.

Orli flushes, but he’s wise enough not to refute the fact that he’s an utter lightweight.

“Lay off the person you _stabbed in the leg_."

Billy looks in the pot again. “Who keeps losing their bread in the cheese?” he demands

Dom looks outraged. “You’ll make it _gluggy_ , doing that! Philistines!” He glares accusingly around the table.

Elijah and Orlando swear their innocence, but so shiftily that there’s little doubt of their guilt. At least not when Dom is judge, jury and executioner.

Dom’s grope for his bread-spear is intercepted by Viggo, who has also managed to vanish the others' silverware within a few seconds.

Dom shoots Billy a Look.

Billy flicks his eyes over at the breadbasket.

The table soon vanishes under a hail of flying bread-bits.

  
vii.

Billy’s still shaking crumbs out of his collar when his eye falls on Dom again, who’s licking stray threads of cheese into his mouth with unholy glee.

Dom looks up, and his eyes meet Billy’s, and there’s that naughty look in them that Billy both loves and dreads [the dread is reserved for when the mischief is centred upon him].

Dom grins wickedly, and now there’s a definitely lascivious quality to the way his tongue dabs at the corners of his mouth, and he slowly brings his hands - lovely hands, Billy’s always thought, long-fingered and deft - to his lips, and painstakingly begins to lick them clean.

Billy watches Dom’s tongue swirl pinkly around the tip of his index finger, and the bottom of his stomach quivers. He feels odd, fascinated. Dom winks at him and bobs his head up and down, and Billy turns away to focus on Orli, now recounting the Epic Fall of Elijah on the slopes that morning.

“He steps off the chairlift, see, and his bindings are as loose as, and suddenly he’s like, ‘whoa!’” - Orli nearly knocks a glass off the table when he describes Elijah’s fall with a sweep of his hands and is only saved from destruction by Viggo’s preternatural reflexes - “and he’s arse over tits in the snow, and the next chair’s coming up and the people are wanting to get off, and he’s just sitting there like a dumbcluck, swearing his head off-”

“Breathe, Orlando,” Viggo interjects.

“- and the chairlift guy’s like ‘nooooo!’ and he slows the whole thing down, but the people have already got off and stumbled over Lij and there’s like this massive pile-up and Lij just keeps repeating ‘fuckfuckfuckfuck’ and it’s so funny I can’t -”

“Just shut up about it, Orli,” Elijah says in a surprisingly harsh tone. Billy notices that the boy’s all tensed up, scowl darkening his brow. Elijah’s eyes are fixed on Orli, angry and complex like he’s trying to shut him up with the force of his stare, and at the same time like he’s trying to tell him something; probably _shutupshutupshutup,_ Billy surmises.

He glances over at Dom, automatically, to see whether he’s up for aiding Elijah in the sudden attempt he’s just made to maul Orli for his libel.

Dom ignores him. This is strange and peculiar, because Dom and Billy have shared a wavelength since they first met.  
viii.

Orli’s rubbing his stomach resentfully where Elijah struck a cunning blow with his elbow.

“You didn’t have to jab me so hard,” he frowns. Orlando looks like a kicked puppy, and he’s staring at Elijah with wounded, mournful dark eyes. Elijah looks oddly stricken, too.

“I’m sorry, Orli. I just - I just wanted you to stop laughing at me, you know? You make me feel like a total idiot.”

They stare at each other for a bit. Billy wants to glance at Dom, see what he’s making of this, but doesn’t dare.

Orlando sighs deeply, and knocks back another glass of beer, his long brown throat bobbing as the liquid courses down his gullet.

Viggo and Dom exchange a look of horror.

“Who the _hell_ let the elf get into the alcohol?” Viggo demands with a snarl.

Orlando scowls back at him. “ ’M a grown man, aren’t I? No one _let_ me.”

Billy’s eyes move to Elijah, who’s projecting such limpid innocence that he’s obviously guilty. However, Viggo doesn’t glance at him, and Billy’s not about to betray Elwood - betray _anyone_ \- to Viggo’s ire.

Viggo and Orlando begin to argue - loudly - over Orlando’s right to get hammered on a work night.

Elijah slumps down in his chair, eyes miserable as he watches Orli focus all his attention on Viggo again.

The wind is clearly audible, a shrieking dirge outside the warmth of the little restaurant. Billy can see, against the sullen black sky, snow beginning to fall outside.

Looks like they’ll be working in the indoors sets tomorrow.

  
ix.

Orlando’s head is pillowed against Elijah now, and they’re cheerfully engaged in a war of personal insults with Dom, who’s leaning back in his chair and cheekily holding his own, with no reference to Billy.

Viggo’s watching from the edges, too, but that’s usual. Viggo’s a great guy, if a little peculiar, but he’s often to be found observing them from a certain reserve. At least, Billy thinks that’s Viggo; it may be one of Aragorn’s traits showing through, a drop of scarlet dye in a wealth of dark quiet water. Bloody method actors.

“Shut up about my body hair, you jug-eared gimp!” Orlando shouts triumphantly.

Definitely past wasted and moving rapidly towards thoroughly shitfaced, Billy decides, with a practiced eye, honed during years of hanging around pubs. The signs are all there, to the connoisseur; the glazed look, the lack of volume control, the slight sway back and forth; and, of course, the fact that he’s now muttering nonsense and dribble into Elijah’s shirtfront.

As Billy watches the drunken Orli with an amused eye, Orlando suddenly twists his head up, and begins to mutter into the scoop of Elijah’s neck.

Billy has to blink; is that _his tongue_ on Elijah's _throat_?

He chances a look at Viggo, who’s watching the antics, face impassive. Then Viggo leans forward suddenly. “I think it’s time we got you home, Orlando.”

“Don’t wanna,” Orli whines, and nestles his nose into Elijah’s collarbone. "'M happy."

Dom shrugs; there’s something unhappy about the twist to his mouth. “Viggo’s right, mate. You’re beyond ratted. Time for you to get home, I’m thinking.”

“It’s snowing out,” Billy puts in quietly.

“Fuck!” Elijah exclaims. “Fuck. How’re we supposed to get back?”

All heads swivel in Viggo’s direction, even though Orli’s eyes don’t quite focus.

“It’s not far from the hotel, compadres,” Viggo says in a low, calming tone, the one he affects when talking to that horse of his. “We can easily leave the car where it’s parked until tomorrow, and walk back. I think Orli should get home; he’s going to have a dreadful hangover whatever he does, and the more sleep he gets before make-up call, the better.”

“I’ll walk him back,” Elijah puts in. “I don’t mind going home now. You guys can stay.”

Viggo gives him one of those frightening gentle stares, Elijah lifts his chin slightly, glares back.

“I don’t mind,” he repeats, voice high and brittle. “You want me to take you home, don’t you, Orli?”

Viggo continues to gaze mildly at him; some of Elijah’s perfect composure, the legacy of a child star, slips slightly.

“I said I’ll _do_ it,” Elijah says, and Billy’s impressed. If Viggo was looking at him with such patience, he would have crumbled long since.

“I think it’s best I manage this, don’t you, perian?” Viggo asks reasonably. It’s no longer a matter of asking, since Viggo’s already risen from the table, and is gently untangling Orlando’s long limbs, twining one limp arm around his neck to help Orlando stand.

Viggo stops, and manages to find a few bills. “This should cover it. Don’t wait too long to come home. The weather's only going to get worse.”

“Piss off, you bloody optimist,” Dom laughs, but gives Billy the slip again when he tries to catch his eye.

  
x.

The three of them have been sitting in near silence around the table for nearly ten minutes, slowly emptying their glasses, when Elijah’s fingers stop their rapid staccato on the wooden table-top.

“Fuck this,” he announces, and the composure’s definitely frayed, because that sounds petulant to Billy’s ears.

The exhaustion shadows under his eyes that Billy noticed in the car are near plum-coloured; it’s a good thing Frodo doesn’t have to look dewy-skinned tomorrow. They’re startling on Elijah’s creamy-fair skin, and make his eyes deeper, darker, more vulnerable. He looks frail in the golden light, and Billy knows how much Elijah would hate to be thought so. And the Elijah Billy knows _isn’t_ fragile at all, is a smart-arsed young man with a filthy mouth, a childish sense of humour, a good heart and terrible cuticles.

But he looks brittle tonight, the line of his mouth wound taut, face full of dips and hollows that Billy hasn’t noticed before.

“I’m gonna go, guys,” Elijah says, and he’s already fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette. Billy’s willing to bet he’ll have lit up by his first step back out onto the veranda. He continues searching around noisily, angrily, in his pockets, and finally dumps a handful of bills and change onto the table. He jerks the corner of his mouth up, but it‘s not a smile, by any means. “I’ll see you later.”

Billy could swear his eyes flickered over to Dom as he said ‘later’.

“Go along then, Elwood,” he said smoothly. “We’ll just get a last beer, and then settle up, aye Dom?”

  
xi.

Dom’s slowly drawing his finger through the wet amber ring marking the table top, spelling something out with the liquid; marring the perfect circle the bottom of the glass left behind until it’s a misshapen pool, flickering as it reflects the light.

Billy watches Dom with the same fixed care with which Dom regards the puddle of beer. There’s something about the way Dom’s long fingers move that Billy loves to watch. “So,” he begins, “D’you care to tell me what’s going on, Dominic? With you and Elijah, and Elijah and Orlando, and Orlando and bloody Viggo into the bargain?”

Dom’s finger jerks, breaking the pool into shattered little spots, jewel-like drops dotting the golden wood.

"I don't know, and I don't want to know," he says. "You don't truly think that I'm involved in their little three-man drama, do you?" He breaks off, shaking his head sharply, teeth sunk into his lower lip. “There'a nothing between Elijah and me,” he says. "If you think there is, you're either blind or deluding yourself."

Billy blinks at him, and Dom stares back, like he's looking for something. A moment passes, another, and Dom sighs. "I better go, too," he says, and pushes back his chair with a spine-chilling scrape, stares at Billy again, and then strides out into the snow.

Billy sits there, staring at the mess on the table; abandoned glasses, some still half-filled with beer, screwed-up napkins, a stray bread-bit or two, and an untidy heap of coins and crumpled cash.

He stares at the spilt liquid, wondering what glyphs Dom was drawing out, what secrets he wrote upon the water. It may have been beer, in this case, but Billy feels the principle is the same.

Billy’s head feels cotton-stuffed. He’s definitely a tad tipsy.

Dom always writes the truth. What he says is more difficult, and Billy can’t follow it. He thinks he can’t, anyway - does he want to follow the spool of thread into the heart of the maze?

The fairytales he heard as a child were quite specific; a monster lurks there. Or sometimes, in the happy stories, it’s the quester's beloved waiting within, for the lover's kiss.

Sometimes the beloved is dead, laid out in coldness, poison on their lips.

Billy doesn’t want to know if the maze contains a monster. He’d rather stay outside the shifting passageways, where it’s stable, where it’s safe. He tries to put the sense of Dom’s words together, but he keeps dropping the thread.

 _Idiot_ , he berates himself.

 _Clot-head_.

Something drops into place.

Billy’s forehead hits the table with a crash.

His arse vacates the seat so fast the friction could light tinder.

  
xii.

Billy gives a final nod to the waitress, dumps another handful of change on the table - they've probably tipped over the price of the meal now, but never mind - then follows Dom out the door.

He sprints down the street in the direction Dom would have to take to get to the hotel, and after five minutes or so, by which time he’s panting and wheezing, he catches sight of a familiar figure.

Dom’s long-legged form is moving rapidly down the street.

“Dom, wait up!” Billy calls.

Dom keeps walking, arms wrapped tightly around himself and for a moment Billy thinks he‘s not going to stop. The air bursts from his chest in a gush of frost when Dom stops pacing ahead, turns slowly around.

The snow is thicker now, swirling in the air, and there‘s a heavy dusting of powder on the woollen grey shoulders of Dom‘s coat and on the top of his dark blond head. Billy draws a quick little breath at the sight of Dom’s eyes, hot and cold and burning, the colour of bluegrey Queenstown shale, all shot through with silver quartz.

“Dom,” Billy begins, and realises that if he tries to explain, he’ll likely only bollocks it up worse. Fuck talking. His hand comes up, slowly, and rests gently against Dom’s cold cheek. “Dom.”

He brings his head closer, close enough to see the snowflakes caught thickly in Dom’s eyelashes, and gently rests his cheek on Dom’s.

They stand there for a moment, cheek to cheek, as the snow flies and tangles about them, snowflakes dancing on the wind.

Billy can’t breathe. This is it, this is peace, but he’s too frightened to draw a breath and break it, lest he startle Dom and break the fragile moment.

He closes his eyes, so he won’t have to watch it go wrong, and turns his head, ever so slowly, until the corner of his mouth is touching the corner of Dom’s.

Their lips brush together chastely, light as butterflies; Dom draws back, and Billy’s heartbeat pulses loudly  
in his ears.

 _He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want me…_

“You absolutely thick wanker,” Dom says, and Billy’s panic increases. “How fucking long-” he stops, shaking his head slightly, and Billy insanely hopes that he doesn’t shake off too much of the snow scattered through his messy blond hair, because it looks so lovely there.

Billy begins to back away. “I’m sorry, Dom - I didna mean-”

Dom makes an inarticulate little growl, and his hands reach up and clamp _hard_ on the corners of Billy’s jaw. “Shut up, will you? You’re not going anywhere.”

And this time there’s nothing chaste about the kiss, wet heat and clashing teeth and the taste of _Dom,_ really, finally, Dom‘s lips and his tongue and his hands still bruisingly gripping the sides of Billy’s face.

The tension leaves Billy’s shoulders in a rush, and he licks his way slowly into Dom’s mouth.

  
xiii.

The sheets of snow curl about them as they kiss in the street, crash into them, crawl wetly down the napes of their necks, nip at nose tips and earlobes, gather in hair and on shoulders.

Neither stops.

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first fanfiction, preserved for posterity when it should probably be hidden in shame.


End file.
